


I say them quietly

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1895, Fluff and Mush, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, POV Sherlock, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, no mary or irene, this is not in the mind palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You heard me." Watson pauses and grips my hand harder. "Sherlock."<br/>It hits like an anvil to the heart. This is where I'm ugly, where the scabs and scars litter. This is not a place where he should wander. My heart is not the war he is searching for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I say them quietly

I have constructed a palace with winding hallways leading to rows of doors and rooms that contain everything I hold dear. It is a house of cards waiting to fall and I am forever at the mercy of it. One wrong move and I'll lose everything. It's a risky game of chess against my own mind, my heart. Though to destroy it would be to unravel the seams that hold together the frayed thread and there is but one person that I have allowed close enough.

Foolishly and under the influence of too much brandy, I kissed him last night. Few details are fuzzy but those that I have chosen to keep are crystal clear and sharp enough to bring blood. I would let him. If his words were harsh and unbending, I would allow them to pierce me until the rug stained with crimson. If he were to leave I would not stop him.

And yet he has not mentioned the event until this very moment.

 

Watson shifts in his chair by the crackling fire. "When did you know?"

All at once the walls shift as if they're closing in on me. "Pardon?" Even I can hear the tremble in my voice, the uncertainty.

Watson clears his throat and scoots forward in his chair.

He cannot know. I cannot lose him. He is every scientific equation that I've ever gotten wrong and together we are an explosion waiting to happen but I want him more than I have ever wanted anything.

"You heard me. You kissed me. Surely you must've known."

I could flee to my bedroom and feign a sudden fever and chills. Perhaps I could even fling a partially dissected bag of human kidneys at him - I have them. They're next to his favorite cheese in the icebox. 

Nonsense. He wouldn't even flinch.

 

Voice comes out small, weak. "Clarify please."

Watson takes a deep breath, chest expanding and deflating. "You care for me, Holmes," he states.

I have loved him before I knew that this feeling had a name. He gave it a name. I cannot deny him this.

"Yes."

And then something spectacularly odd occurs. He begins to laugh heartily. I will not have my feelings be made into a joke. With housecoat swirling in my departure, I sweep past him and into the kitchen with no particular destination in mind.

"Holmes. Holmes, come back," he pleads, laughter fading.

It's not that I intended to be untimely, it just sort of happened. None the less I saunter back into the sitting area and stand by his chair, refusing to take my seat.

Watson balls his hands into fists and releases as he prepares to speak. I can't imagine what atrocities he'll spew at me. I deserve it. I should not have touched what was never mine in the first place. If he merely yells then I will consider my fate to be acceptable as opposed to the far end of the spectrum.

Love. Loss. Heartbreak.

"I apologize, Holmes. I wasn't laughing at you. It's...ridiculous, this situation. We've been living together for years and I've put up with formaldehyde in the tea, I've even tolerated cows eyes floating in the bath. And yet I've never asked myself why."

"And your conclusion?"

 

I want to cover my ears and flee. I cannot bare to hear such ugly words from his lips. Give me any other and I would stand tall but never him.

I wish to ask him: Do you understand how ingrained you are in my life? You could kill me tonight. Your words the gun, my heart the target.

Watson clears his throat and stares at the rich burgundies and hunter green swirls of the rug.

"I care for you," he states.

Can he hear the frantic pounding of my heart? How loudly it beats for him?

I wait.

Watson flexes his hands, clears his throat once more. "I care for you in the manner of a husband to his wife."

Surely I have misheard. I digest these words, repeat them in my head before unlocking a crystalline door. I keep him here; his words. The way his hair smells after a bath. How he prefers his tea. The mess of his hair in the mornings before he tames it. His books of poetry and war. I keep all of it.

"Holmes?"

He snaps his fingers in front of my face which causes me to blink. How far have I drifted?

"Hmm?"

The corner of Watson's cheek quivers as he smiles. I wish to capture it and bottle its essence.

 

"I...ahem. I think perhaps I...love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I did not partake of my 7% solution this evening. Watson does not care for it and so I have refrained. This is not an illusion. This is cold and hot, black and white reality in front of a crackling fire with warm hands slipping into both of mine.

"What?," I question, baffled.

Say it again, I plead.

"You heard me." Watson pauses and grips my hand harder. "Sherlock."

It hits like an anvil to the heart. This is where I'm ugly, where the scabs and scars litter. This is not a place where he should wander. My heart is not the war he is searching for.

"Watson. You're. You're being ridiculous," I sputter as I attempt to free myself from his hold.

There is a pause in between breaths when words are not enough. He finds me here, curled and terrified on the inside. Shivering like a child in the Winter. My entire body quakes as I stand on unsteady legs, dead set on hunting down Lestrade for a case. Any case. I've low standards in my desperation.

"Holmes...surely you've...felt this," Watson replies.

Somewhere in the madness his hands have sought the warmth of my arms though he holds himself at arms length with hands on my biceps. We are forever reaching. The thought of a lifetime spent aching and longing until he found comfort in the arms of another is enough to make me irrational. I step into his space and trace a finger along the underside of his jaw. He shivers and his eyes slide shut.

Call it bravery or ignorance if you will but I stood down. There are some battles that we are not meant to win.

 

" _John_ ," I say, quietly. "Open your eyes."

With a gasp of surprise, he did as he was told and that was it for me. He was the ending and beginning of every story, of every case. Always has been.

His cheeks bare the slightest hint of stubble as I cup them in my hands and bend to brush my lips against his.

I speak to him without words as we touch, soft as the night. His hands on my bent elbows, mine delicately grazing his skin. 

Love me, love me, love me. Do you have any idea how long I've waited to touch you, just like this?

"Yes," he replies as if he'd heard my unspoken pleas. He tilts his head to the side and licks along my bottom lip.

This is where everything sort of whites out for me. Suddenly he's everywhere and everything.

Teeth sink into my lower lip and I cannot help the moan that escapes. I crave him. I need him.

"John," I whisper as he dips in for another kiss.

After another stolen moment of soft slow kisses he breaks away, panting, and rests his forehead upon mine.

"I'm not...I'm not good at this sort of thing," he begins.

I listen ever so patiently and breathe him in. I will wait here forever if he needs me to.

 

"Holmes...Sherlock. I have always considered you the best and wisest man. I have always...always," he breaks off.

I understand. There is something I have always meant to tell him but never have. We all have our secrets but I will not take this one to the grave.

"John."

Deep breath.

"John Watson...I. I've always meant to tell you but I never have. It has always been you. Only ever you."

Three words (I.love.you.) terrify me and get stuck in my throat but he has to know that there has never been anyone else.

 

Watson (John. _My John_ ) takes my hand in his own and pulls me to my feet.

"Sherlock Holmes...would you do me the honor of this dance?," he asks even as he holds me closer and begins to sway.

"The music..." I offer.

The only sound in the flat is the rapid beating of our hearts and the crackling of the fire.

"Don't need it," he replies as he steps away long enough to draw the drapes. It's dangerous, this. Loving him. Having him.

I find that my arms feel empty without him, cold and useless.

"Have you a problem with that?," he questions as he takes my hand once more and we begin to dance.

"With what?"

Lips press against my cheek, smiling. "With my calling you by your Christian name. _Sherlock_."

It gives me chills.

"John," I reply in hushed tones.

 

From this moment on he belongs solely to me and I to him. We are bound in this life though rings will never represent our union. To the outside world we are partners, friends, consulting detective and his Bosswell. May the public forever remain so blissfully ignorant.

 

+

 

Behind a brass knob lies a spacious room. In it are clandestine meetings on park benches and train stations where we bite our tongues until at last 221B comes into sight. I store our first kiss here - brandy tinged with words desperately unspoken. And here? This corner holds the night that stretched into morning as shirts were slowly unbuttoned, trousers leading a trail into the bedroom; a locked door. 

I am a scientist. I know the rate of decay and how quickly it spreads. 

I keep our love here where death can never touch it. 


End file.
